Daughter of Gondor
by TheLadyAranel
Summary: Boromir never spoke of his wife, and she hardly loved him. Her heart belonged to another-Boromir's own brother. Yet when news of her husband's death reaches the lady Mithrenniel, she realizes she loved the man the only way she knew how, and vows to avenge him. However, to get to the heart of the story, one must return to the beginning. Boromir/OC/Faramir.
1. Chapter 1

**(Note on the timing of the story: Boromir is to leave for Rivendell on July 4th. The date at the beginning of this story is April 10. Ten days before Boromir's birthday.)**

**Disclaimer (Will only appear once and counts for all chapters): I do not, nor would I ever own Lord of the Rings, or anything to do with the trilogy. Except my characters which right now includes the rider in blue (Mithrenniel) and Argod.**

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Grey plumed clouds poured out their innards in the form of a hoary rain, crying out in roars of thunder and continuous flashes of lightning in shrouds over Gondor. Drenching the lands outlying the White City, its fields flooded and crops sodden. Such as it was, the storm had carried on for the better part of three days—this day bringing it to the fourth. Droplets fell on the white stone, slowly dripping into the creases and crevices giving the walls a swollen appearance which was most disagreeable to the eye. The city's beauty was veiled in the damp cold and heightened in unpleasantness by the crossing humidity that decanted from the Ash Mountains of Mordor. Ones body grew dense in the presence of those mountains, and the sight of a tower in the distance held no welcome. The Black Land gave the plains and city an iniquity that even the walls of the capital couldn't lift, and the rains did not but aid the idea.

It was here; high above the lower levels of the citadel and in the courtyard of stone, that these sights were taken in. A pair of insipid blue eyes grazed the areas coolly, as a soldier—a captain would. At the leave of his brother he would be soul protector of Osgiliath and given a well deserved opportunity to gain favor of the Steward. (Though the weather would be a minor setback. A deadly challenge he wished could be avoided so soon in his new position.)

The cloaked man noted that the earth was soft, and soaked well up to the very gates of Minas Tirith. A routine scouting party would be facing higher risks than that solely produced by sadistic orcs—the mud and grasses could very well have them stranded for days after. He would see what could be done about this. For now, his senses needed to devote their entireties to the plains. An expected party was to be met well outside the gates, and it was his job to see them to the citadel safely.

As the wind began its howling, the clouds shifted and gave way for the sun to shine mere seconds, before it was engulfed in the shadow of the cumulonimbus haze. May the weather be damned! On these conditions the party from Rohan would be delayed yet another day and that was looking on the vivid side. Had anything befell them, it would be his hide tanned. As it should be; the cargo carried by the Rohirrim was one that was valued indeed. That much had been made clear, orders given directly to Ithilien's Captain by the Steward himself. A delicate matter definitely; the survival of a noble bloodline depended on it.

The young captain placed his hand atop the hilt of his sword, and with the other pulled his hood closer. Straining his eyes, he fought the coming evening hues to peer out once more. Dampness hid the party well, but with keen sight the Gondorian had spotted them: A group of Rohirrim—Riders of the Mark—perhaps three on either side of a rider in deep blue, hooded and cloaked. It was this person, who drew in the attention of the Captain of Ithilien.

A figure clad in indigo was led by a dismounted Horse Lord, whose boots sank deep in the mud with every dulling trudge. The man had obviously given up his steed for the hidden figure, and appeared dreadfully fatigued. Undeniably it would be rude to not send a party out to relieve the poor fellow, and as orders were, he would do just that.

Calling out to the men below, a rally of soldiers was formed at the base of the gates, ready at command to open and ride out to meet the party. It would be their captain that led them.

"Open the gates!" The order rang out and echoed through the city as the man galloped down the cobbled steps. Finally, if he could bring such an honored guest safely within the walls of Minas Tirith, then surely the Steward would recognize his worth!

"The gates are open, sir!" An old soldier bowed slightly, a fist to the heart of his glimmering armor.

Nodding the captain lowered his hood and rode to the front of party. For a moment he paused, looking out once more to the lands beyond, and then started out.

The horses sank into the earth, and pulled their limbs violently in attempt to save them and their riders from dipping too far into the sludge. Stench rose from the ground; a smell of rotting grass and crop. Over-raining had cost them much this season. A steady gallop was their pace, which gave enough time for the captain to better see his homeland.

For the captain—even though his position hardly allowed such thinking—saw the world in a different light. Poetic and dreaming were his ways. Gondor and her people often played out in his mind like stories of old, each a saddening tale of woe. The young man often dwelled in a dream like fantasy, taking much to heart and deep into his being…

Gondor's capital and surrounding lands were beautiful, if seen in a different light. Growing darkness from Mordor hindered much of its former beauty. Yet the rain was simply spring at her finest, and no ill or evil came from it. The droplets were cool and heavy, and clinked and clanked on the armor of his party members…

The captain's horse had jolted and reared, causing his mind to be brought back to the present. He whispered words of calming, steadying the beast and continued pressing on. Winds had picked up from the south, and whipped the captain's hair about his face—which only caused for annoyance. The man pulled his cloak hood over his head, and clasped it to prevent another brutal attack from the blustery weather.

From beneath the heavy fabric, the captain was able to make out a pair of Rohirrim each atop his horse. The proud riders galloped toward his party, spears and shields raised. The colors of Rohan shown gray and cold against the weather, but proud as the Rohirrim were they fought their fatigue. Stopping mere feet in front of the Gondorian, a particularly handsome man of Rohan glared heatedly. Eventually the stare became mutual, and uneasiness grew amongst the difference between the two. The captain's placid blue clashed with fiery amber and as soon as it had happened, all hostilities faded away. A grand laughter erupted between the two, and the ersatz abhorrence all but faded. How good it was to jest with old friends.

"It is good to see you, Faramir!" The Horse Lord's voice boomed with richness, coated with a touch of thick honey.

The Captain outstretched his hand and clasped the others forearm in a friendly embrace.

"As always: the same to you, Argod."

Argod nodded removing his helm. The smile that shown bright against his golden eyes faded, replaced with a more solemn tone. With his right hand the man of Rohan scratched his blonde beard, and motioned to his back as the rest of his party arrived.

"I'll speak to you in just this way: a whisper. It was good idea bringing the girl here; impeccable timing. Our land has been," Argod stopped, tossing his hand in a gesture of finding the right word. "Compromised as of late…Not the best place…I am afraid soon our friends may become foe."

Faramir took these words in quiet alarm. If Rohan should fall—what aid would Gondor have if the need should arise? All matters he would discuss with his father and brother in due time. Perhaps, even a council with Argod in the time of his stay in Minas Tirith would prove a great worth.

"It's the White Wizard, Faramir…I am most sure of it. In the darkness of the night a whisper travels on the wind. I myself fear for the lady. Saruman is cunning." Argod placed two fingers to his temple and tapped three times.

The Captain nodded and looked to the sky. Thunder cracked and the mountains of Mordor shuddered in defiance.

"The eye has finally begun to move," Faramir stated bluntly.

Argod grimaced in the shadow of the Black Land and spit before tossing his head in mockery. "Let the eye wander. It holds no sway over me!" There was no doubt of this man's lineage! Proud and defiant, Argod son of Argoth was a Marshal of the Riddermark; the first in fact. His place of birth was within the Golden Hall—his father a dear friend to Théoden King. From what Faramir knew Argod's father died at the hand of orcs, his mother long since passing of a grave illness. It was because of this the man of Rohan never settled down to start a family of his own…though an aching filled him when talk of the happiness of a quiet life rose. He countered such talk with the statement that he was a seasoned warrior, to harsh for the bringing up of daughters, and too unwillingly to teach the sword to an innocent boy. Though both sons of the Steward saw early on in their years that their friend longed for what he wouldn't allow himself to have.

Faramir's own brother, Boromir had made himself a similar promise, but that was long ago. The young Boromir was too foolish and green with young age to understand the needs of a mature and fully grown man. Even a warrior of Gondor needs the loving touch of woman, and as charismatic as Boromir could be, he wasn't one who was learned in the ways of wooing women. Faramir also knew his brother would not give away his being so loosely. No, Faramir knew he would not do this. Although it had surprised the Captain of Ithilien, that his older sibling suddenly showed an interest in love and marriage. In all honesty he didn't know exactly what brought it about—which was very unusual, seeing as Boromir was always an open book to Faramir. The younger sibling's only explanation for it all was the springtime's festivities, which often brought out the loveliest of Gondorian women. Each with their own charm and beauty…but still, that didn't explain Boromir's choice of a lady to court…

"Faramir? Faramir, did you hear me?" Argod moved his steed forward, swinging the reins around and halting at the Captain's right side.

Faramir looked to his right, and up into the face of Argod, who grinned slightly.

"Always with your head in the clouds Faramir! Such a dreamer at heart, but look now: The rain falls harder still, and my men are weary. Let us ride for the city; I'm sure your father is ready to meet with us."

As Argod's laugh boomed passed this men, a black arrow fell short his breast and into the neck of his steed, who cried out nodding and rearing violently. Within mere seconds the Horse Lord was thrown from his charger—something that does not happened often to Rohirrim—and the company of men was under attack.

Through the shrill cries of the horrid Orcs, Faramir was able to raise Argod to his feet and rally his men. As though by sixth senses it was made clear: The Rohirrim rallied around the rider in blue as the Gondorian soldiers formed a wall in front and around their allies steeds. A falling rain of black arrows pierced the skies and landed with a clattering about the shields of the men. Constant snorts and hollering followed by deepening roars crowded in around their company, and threatened them menacingly. Yellow crusted eyes peered closer as a charge was formed. Blackened teeth with great fangs roared in defiance at the party, bleeding from the source of the creatures' own filthy rots.

The captain of Ithilien unsheathed his sword and cut into the first goblin, slicing its torso from the lower half. Then he turned to face a rather disgusting creature that smelt as though it were already rotting in the clouded sun. Inside Faramir held no qualms over killing these beasts. No, he justly gutted the creature where it stood, spilling its rancid innards onto the fields beneath his feet. No…there was no ill in killing what was truly evil. Yet another beast threw itself at the captain, shrieking as Faramir's blade plunged into the orc's black heart. The weight of the goblin nearly brought him off his horse, but with a great force he shoved and conquered his opponent.

Persistently the orcs came, never backing down in strength or stamina. No doubt they saw the weather as an opportune point to strike a small party such as this. A damned ambush! Gathered at the base of a small rock formation, the volley of arrows rained again. Through the onslaught, the First Marshal was able to regain composure.

Argod had managed to secure himself a spot atop the stallion the rider in blue favored and shouted out to Faramir. "Faramir, I will ride her to the gates! Cover my end, cover my end!"

Faramir rode to the back, and pulled from his back a short bow, and snapped into place an arrow. Aiming at an orc who persistently followed Argod, the captain released the arrow with a snap and brought down the devil. A crude smile spread across his lips, but fell short as the gates opened far too soon. Falling out from the city was a small number of his brother's troops; led by none other than Boromir himself. Had Faramir ever felt a pang of humiliation and worthlessness it would have been then. Not for the fact that his elder brother had come to his aid…no…but above the great wall stood Denethor. Though Faramir could not make out his father's expression, he knew all too well the one he must have adorned. How long had Denethor watched this event unfold? When did he give the order for his beloved first born to charge forth? The youngest son of the Steward felt his chance to prove himself, slip away…

Faramir marched up the steps of the White City, his face at his feet. His men had been dismissed—there were no casualties—and from where he stood he could already hear his father's scorning from the courtyard. All more embarrassing was the right fact that Boromir had been fighting on his behalf, in front of the guards, Argod, and the figure clad in indigo. He knew not her name—the figure that is—but it made no difference; to be a grown man reprimanded by your father, and to have your older brother fighting your battles…well…it was a self spoken humiliation.

If the young man were to be honest with himself, he had foreseen it all coming.

Indeed, Faramir had traveled this particular road many times before. In his father's eyes he would have done some wrong, and Faramir's weak voice would not overpower the aching in his heart to be loved and accepted. Faramir saw it in this way: If he were to endure such strife stricken upon him by his father—a simple outlet for his pain and anger—perhaps one day Denethor would realize how much his second son loved him. If it meant plunging cold steel into his own beating heart to hear the words leave his father's lips…Faramir would have gladly have done so. The steward's youngest knew he would never live up to the grand Boromir…yet he couldn't help but wonder…if his mother had lived…

"THERE! There he is! A second born, unqualified of even completing the minutest task set unto him! What does my second born have to say? What feeble excuse does the unworthy captain have to report to his Steward?" Denethor whispered in a seething snarl.

Faramir's skin drew on a heat of mortification, one that wouldn't even allow him to meet his father's eyes. Any explanation that he could give would be met by Boromir's rescues. Truly this was most thwarting.

"Father, please! Give Faramir but a chance to explain himself. An ambush such as this could not have been avoided so easily!" Boromir pleaded on his younger brother's behalf. The discomfort on Faramir's face was evident, and it pained Boromir to see it so.

Denethor's expression turned disapprovingly to his eldest, who firmly stood against his father. Though the initial anger in his eyes faded, it was apparent the Steward was not pleased with his son's interruption.

"An explanation indeed," He then paused; turning to the First Marshal, raising a finger in question. "Tell me Argod, son of Argoth, as a commanding officer of three groups of Rohirrim, what would be routine procedures and scouting measures when one such guest is expected in Edoras?"

Argod looked shamefully at his feet. Never would he cause his dear friend Faramir trouble—none found outside of jesting—and he certainly did not wish to do so now. But the steward formally addressed his rank, and such could not be ignored. Removing his plumed helm, Argod hissed and answered at length.

"As it is Lord Steward, the Third Marshal would post men on the outer reaches of the city." Seeing Faramir close his eyes in defeat, Argod raised his own to meet Denethor. "It was made clear however Lord Steward, that a band of Rohirrim was to accompany the Lady and I to Minas Tirith."

"A band of Rohirrim indeed…and what does the First Marshal do in the face of the shadows of Mordor? He runs, full speed on steed to the White City to seek its shelter. Upon which my first born takes to the fields, to drag back his," Denethor then paused, narrowing his gaze at Faramir. "Brother." The last word was bitter upon the ears of all who stood around them.

Argod however, did not take kindly to being accused of fleeing, and readily gripped his sword, swearing under his breath in Rohirric.

The tension only grew instead of lessening, and the aura of a quarrel was being poured down upon them. Thunder again boomed from the heavens and a rain picked up from the east. It was then, as if sent by some ancient magic, the hood of the figure in indigo fell, stepping forward to calm the hearts of her men.

Taken by surprise both the men of Gondor and Rohan—though less Rohan—watched as the star bound maiden gracefully opened her eyes. She was, by first impression, a delight to look upon. Though not silky, her locks of hair fell smoothly down her back; the color of night brushed simply with silver strands like stars, which moved in an unnatural glittering way. Her brows were black, the color of her hair and the maiden's eyes as beautiful as the sky after an autumn rain. Pale in character, her body was slim but good for child-bearing, and her face like that of an angel. Thin but full lips pressed into a gentle smile, as full cheeks gleamed with a gorgeous glow. It wasn't until the maiden spoke, the lines of weary travel shook over her body, and the once new beauty dully faded into a common placed lass. Exhaustion was plastered all over the girl.

"My Lord Steward," A voice like rain calmed the storm. "I beg pardon for interruption, but I grow cold against the wind. I pray you milord, a moment of peace from the crying skies. Perhaps then, proper introductions may be exchanged."

Much to Faramir's own surprise his father had actually smiled, and openly at this girl in fact! Had the man been perfectly honest with himself he would even go as far as to say his father had a scheme up his sleeve; though he could not be positive of this.

"Of course, of course!" Denethor pushed Faramir aside and raised his arm to the Lady, which she took graciously. "But first my dear, if I could be so honored as to be graced with the name of such a maiden, to properly welcome her to Minas Tirith!"

The woman's eyes fell upon the sons of the Steward, and the name but an audible whisper.

"My Lords, I am Mithrenniel, daughter of Bellethiel and Megildur, a noble daughter of Gondor."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all favorites, follows, and review! Means the world to me that you all take the time to read my work. This chaper is for all of you. Much love to all. -Aranel**

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That night's introductions and conversation during supper dragged on for ages in Mithrenniel's mind. The Lord Steward was not one to provide pleasing entertainment or topics of interesting discussion for his guests; no in fact, it had been the opposite. Weather, dulling politics, and—to Boromir's embarrassment—his eldest son's accomplishments in Osgiliath, were the only subject matters worth being conversed in Lord Denethor's presence. All of which irked Mithrenniel to no end. Being away for so long she knew nothing of Gondor's government, and knew even less of Boromir. As for the weather, any person with half their wits could grasp that the climate lingering beyond the marble walls of the citadel was cold and haunting. For The Valars sake, she had been traveling in such conditions for over a fortnight! Unable to stand such drudgery—she considered listening to Denethor as such—she turned her attention to Lord Faramir (Who sat at her right).

As sly as the man was, it had not been so anonymous that he had been staring nonchalantly at Mithrenniel since she had uncloaked herself but a few hours past.

"Does my Lord Faramir wish to speak?" Mithrenniel's voice sprang forth like ringing silver bells, though she did not meet his gaze.

For a moment's time the man knew not how to respond, but casually sipped his wine and then carefully cleared his throat.

"'Tis…a curious thing," He begun in a low whisper, "Had I known…" Faramir's words fell short. Briskly shaking his head, he took but another sip of from his goblet.

Mithrenniel looked down at her plate; which was half full despite her colossal appetite. Then suddenly, she did not feel so hungry.

Lowering her eyes, she spoke softly, "Dear Faramir…please do not think ill of me…it is under stressful circumstances that I traveled here, to the White City."

There was no answer from the Steward's son, and a sour lump grew in Mithrenniel's throat. "Boromir formally wrote a letter to my uncle. Faramir my hands were tied!" She hissed, gazing quickly to see if they had developed onlookers. They had not.

A saddening grin twitched at the corners of the Faramir's mouth as he loosely fingered the fabric of the table cloth. He handled the material as if it were some precious thing.

"And by tied, the Lady speaks of the possibility of a courtship," The captain of Ithilien took yet another drink and swallowed hard. "With my _brother_."

Mithrenniel felt her heart swell with pain. She did not wish it to be this way, but wishing did little. The last thing in all of Middle-Earth Mithrenniel wanted was to come between such a close sibling relationship.

"I beg you, hold this not against your brother." She whispered.

Finishing off his drink, the youngest of the Steward's sons curtly spoke. "The Lady should not flatter herself. No woman would hold sway over me in such a way to have me thrust hate upon my brother. Good-night."

Standing and bowing before the table's guests, Faramir exited without a second glance.

Reluctantly, Mithrenniel continued her meal, slowly sipping her cold soup.

The citadel's gardens at night—when spring was still anew—were particularly splendid. Brightly colored flowers were a touch of breathless splendor that words simply could not capture. Cut around a small courtyard, this particular patch was an oasis among white stone. High above was the ceiling and pouring from it was gentle moonlight, which seemed to bring the nocturnal flora to life. The evening flowers glimmered and shined as if they themselves were specks of stars or cosmic energy. They even sang a hushing lullaby with the scent of sleep and dreams heavily coated on their small sweet-smelling petals. To the right of some small white flowers were the Afirin, which resembled golden bells. Many other exotic plant life grew in _this_ garden, such as the sun-star Elanor, Lissuin, and—similar to Afirin—Mallos. Each gave off the smell of life, rain, and calming notions.

It was the flowers that brought Mithrenniel peace. The wonderful perfumed petals were the most spectacular present that she could—and most definitely would—enjoy every night. Calming her senses and pains, the flora brought comforting memories of her childhood within the citadel back to life. Many days as a young girl were spent embroidering on the stone benches by the Lissuin. Softly she would sing to them. (For it was rumored by the keeper of the grounds, if you sang to the flowers they would grow faster.) But these days did not last long, and eventually Mithrenniel's father had passed of old age—her mother dying in childbirth, (Mithrenniel being their only child) and it was then her uncle (And only living relative) who plucked her from Minas Tirith. It was her mother's older brother who came from the strange land of Rohan…which until arriving at the Golden Hall Mithrenniel had thought to be a myth. Only by great chances was it that her uncle too, had been of noble blood. This made Mithrenniel a noble daughter of both countries—though this was unbeknownst to her at the time. It wasn't until her sixteenth summer that Mithrenniel saw the White City again.

An invitation had been given to her directly by a messenger of Gondor. A grand celebration was to be had, as it was every year around early summer, but this year had been different. Now old enough to attend such events, her uncle had taken her with him and they set out for a grand month of merrymaking.

Of course it had been all Mithrenniel dreamt it would be. Many lovely ladies wore silk gowns, and the men adorned in the most handsome attire. The women of Gondor however, were especially fashionable. Elvish styled hair and jeweled crown pieces, along with glittering bands encrusted with pearls encircled their heads. Silk slippers were worn on their feet and slender fingers adorned with silver rings danced with moonlight. In awe Mithrenniel beamed at them. Everything about these Gondorian noblewomen was enchanting! Even the way they walked; as if they were floating instead of placing one foot in front of the other. Never in all her sixteen summers had she seen anything quite like it.

Mithrenniel however, did not look like this. A young girl does not wear such fine clothing, nor does she clad herself in jewels or tiaras. No, our Mithrenniel wore a simple green dress. The color was rich, but not accented in gold or silver for that matter, and the neck merely dipped to her fine collarbone. Formfitting were the sleeves and chest, and opened and flowing was the length—which reached past her feet. Mithrenniel did not wear silk slipper. No, she wore a flat, leather type shoe which was commonly worn by many women. Her hair was down and already the silver began to show despite her adolescent age. It was family trait, as her uncle had told her.

All of these factors had brought many to gaze upon _her._ There was no question that she was a pretty girl, though young; Mithrenniel had caught the eye of more than one gentleman that night…

"I thought I might find you here." A soft voice broke Mithrenniel's thoughts from the past.

Lowering her eyes she softly smiled. It was Faramir, and of course he of all people would know she would retreat to the garden.

"My Lord…forgive me…I did not mean to upset you during your meal." She fought her tongue to produce the right words.

Faramir had stridden forward and leaned against a small tree, staring out over the garden onto the apartments below. He completely ignored her apology.

"I once knew a maiden by the name of Mithrenniel," He began. "When I had met her she was very young, but a fire burned deep within her heart…I so dreamt of quenching those untamed flames."

Mithrenniel stared at him with questioning eyes.

"Spring had brought her here, to this city that is. It was three long years ago that she had graced me with her presence but I still remember it well. I had brought her to this very garden after an enchanting dance. Her autumn eyes sparkled with more beauty than winter's first frost. Her laugh…like silver bells blowing gently against a pale spring breeze…" Taking a deep breath, Faramir closed his blue eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, smiling. The man was dwelling deep in memories, but soon enough he spoke again.

"We laughed and embraced, holding one another as lovers do. Such a humorous girl…do you know what she asked me?" He chuckled and opened his eyes to stare at Mithrenniel, who shrugged.

"I do not my Lord. What did she ask?"

Faramir's eyes sparkled as he held out his hand for her to grasp, which she did and he took hold of it, leaning back against the tree. "She asked me if the wine had affected her so, that she thought she loved me. I too had many a drink that night but through the potency I had sobered at this comment, for I had grown fond of her honesty, and her love for many things."

Taking Faramir's other hand in hers, Mithrenniel spoke in but a whisper. "And what did you tell her my lord?"

"I told her," Faramir brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. "That it was not a matter of wine, or simple emotions…that I loved her and daresay wished to kiss her lips and linger there for a lifetime."

Mithrenniel blushed feverishly, and then shunned her face from his sight. How could she explain herself? What he must think of her now…here in the city to court his brother.

How Boromir had remembered her she could not guess; all she knew was that her uncle saw it as a perfect match—as did Denethor—and it was her duty to comply. After all, a courtship between the Steward's eldest and a noblewoman of both Gondor and Rohan did well for politics and trade. Mithrenniel saw it as her duty in a land covered in shadow to at least bring her people together under one common banner—symbolically of course. Besides, she could learn to love Boromir, couldn't she? And Faramir…he would understand, would he not?

What bothered her most however was that she did not know Faramir's true intake on the subject. Anyone who knew the man could see it was not unlike him to hide his emotions from the world…that is unless Faramir was in the company of his father. Mithrenniel loved him though, despite all that had conspired to pull them apart, and he deserved to know the whole truth.

"It was wrong for me to not send word to you…I will recount all I know. Where shall I begin?" Mithrenniel's voice cracked somewhere in the middle.

Faramir looked to the sky and sighed, then titled his head toward her and smiled saying, "The beginning, I suppose."

Taking in deep breaths and forcing out all anxious emotions the girl squeezed Faramir's hands for support. Gently, he rubbed her palms and looked into her eyes as if to say, 'You will not lose me'. For Mithrenniel, it was enough to calm her. Seeing the pale blue of Faramir's eyes bore into her gave her courage. They were much like the sea after a storm poised and perfect in everyway. With those eyes upon her, Mithrenniel's doubts faded and she was able to convey all she knew to him.

"Twas in December my uncle received a letter. The seal of Gondor marked it well, and it was apparent to him that the note was regarding me. A formal letter signed by **Boromir** of Gondor…" There was a pause after she uttered Boromir's name. His given name felt rather odd on her tongue she tested it again, slowly; pronouncing it with harsh tones as one of Rohan might.

"Softer…" Faramir smirked. He knew her so well! It was in fact one of the many things he adored about her: She was so precise with her words and desired to be learned in literature. "His name isn't that of Rohan, or any of the like. It is an ancient branch of two languages. Elvish based if you will…just as yours is and mine. You must speak it softly, and do not let the sounds roll with thunder. Try again."

Mithrenniel lightly smiled and attempted it once more. _"Boromir."_ _Faithful-jewel. _

Faramir nodded at her correct pronunciation, waiting for her to continue. Well, unenthusiastically of course.

"Your brother had written a letter praying my uncle to ponder upon the possibility of a courtship. In return uncle wrote a parcel back, agreeing with the match under the condition that I would arrive on my own free will. Faramir, it was made clear on both ends without my consent there would be no courtship…but…you see, I could not refuse. My uncle had for so long tried to find me a husband. He even went so far as to try and arrange a courtship between the King's nephew and myself. I respectively turned each suitor down. Times have changed though, and uncle is my only living relative. He seemed so pleased with the match with Boromir that I could not bear to ignore it. Besides, I could not complain! So many women are given away without their own consent, but both my uncle and Boromir saw it was important that I see it as a fair match as well.

"To be honest I pondered many nights on the subject of it. How Boromir even remembered me…but none of it mattered after. He desired to meet, and so I left for Minas Tirith. Time will pass and if he desires it to be so..."

Silence drew in around the two. The courtship may be inevitable, but neither had given up hope as of yet. Faramir so desperately wished to convince her to cancel any ties to his brother but at the same time he knew her love for her country…for her uncle. He knew where her heart belonged and it was not right to plead with her to relocate it.

"I've spoke with my brother." Faramir gripped her chin with his thumb and finger, bringing her face to his. "Mithrenniel, I will always love you. Whatever you choose, though I may not agree or like it, I will support you till my dying breath."

"Why…Faramir why did you not send for me?" Mithrenniel could not hold in her pain any longer. His very touch burned her sweetly but she dare not let go. A constant fear of losing what she never had crept over her, and the stinging tears of regret spilled over her angelic face. Pain welled in her chest with every breath, cutting her with icy daggers and burning her with molten flames. So young and confused was her heart. If he loved her, shouldn't he fight for her? If he loved her…shouldn't he let her go? So many controversy emotions tried to drown her.

Faramir tried to dry her tears, but they fell in too many numbers.

"Please, Mithrenniel do not cry…you do not know the pain it causes me. I am but putting on my strongest suit of armor to stand before you as a whole man…I beg you, I am not worth your precious tears."

With these words the girl only cried harder, latching onto to him for support. How could he calm her?

"Dearest Mithrenniel," He began. "Do not cry just yet…I am always here for you. It is late though, and my brother does wish to spend the day with you come the early morrow. Would you allow me to escort you to your chambers?"

Sniffling and wiping her eyes and nose with her hands Mithrenniel felt ashamed. In a moment of weakness she exposed her core and let her fear of Boromir escape her mind. Yet even so, Faramir still stood before her, waiting to take her to her room. Nodding—seeing as she was unable to speak—Mithrenniel took hold of Faramir's arm and in silence he showed her to her chambers.

Outside the room they lingered, standing against the pillars of the citadel—which were cold and dark. Justly, there was no more words need said between the two, only short embraces held in secret. Their eyes spoke to one another as well as any dialogue, and they read each other's thoughts with ease. Faramir saw in hers the plea for him and could not deny her any longer. Glancing swiftly around them and seeing no one, he gripped her firmly by the hands and pressed his lips to hers.

Mithrenniel's body tensed and heated at his touch, his fingers intertwined with hers. Faramir's lips were soft and sweet, his breath in short bursts. How marvelously he kissed her; just as carefully and artistically as a painter creates his masterpiece. With each soft flexion of his lips Mithrenniel melted and molded to him. Such a pure sensation! His beard tickled her mouth, but not harshly. It felt as though someone had lightly brushed her jaw with a feather. Oh how she longed for more, be it a horrible notion or not!

Faramir buried his head in her neck and kissed it there, gently tickling her. He breathed in her scent and sighed, never moving from that spot. "What have I done? I feel no shame…Alas you must rest. There is a long day ahead of you tomorrow. Come, I will see you to your door."

Mithrenniel blushed as she crept from behind the pillar, trying to compose herself as a noble lady. Once they had reached the door, she turned to face her 'escort' who bowed deeply and took it upon himself to kiss her hand goodnight. Being a gentleman, Faramir had waited for her to close the door of the chamber behind her before retiring to his own.

Within the confines of her room Mithrenniel stared into the fire that had been kept alit by the Steward's many servants. Too many thoughts jumped in her brain for her to think logically on any one topic, and so she forced herself to forget. For the time being she would focus on a bath, yes a bath. Hot water and soap. Clean clothes. A warm bed. Yes. For now, these would be the things she would concentrate on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Enjoy**

* * *

Morning came too soon for Mithrenniel's liking. The air of the pervious night still held sway over the room, and this helped to coax her out of her bed. Swinging her legs over the edge of her cot, Mithrenniel spread her toes out on the freezing stone floor. It did not take long for her feet to chill but the sensation was something she adored. The stinging impression like ice on stone soaked into her lower limbs forcing as hiss to escape her lips. She had an inkling this day would be a long one.

Getting ready that sunup had been quite an ordeal, for a variety of reasons. One, Mithrenniel was not a morning person. Two, she was still exhausted from her journey, and third, she simply was not used to three different servants dressing her. Truly, she remembered being young and waited on by three servants, but her time away from Minas Tirith had proven to be a tad more than a culture shock on her return, and the fact that she was no longer a child played well into it. Never in all her days would she see the necessity of having one servant to dress her, another to plait her hair, and yet another to address her cosmetics; it was truly absurd. While in Rohan, she dressed herself, merely brushed her hair, and never clogged her pores with powder. If any help was needed, there was always Éowyn.

Despite her foul attitude for the unnecessary aid, there was one servant who brought a smile to her face and made the days outlook a bit brighter. The child Venya, had been the servant to plait Mithrenniel's hair, and told of her ambition to become a handmaiden. She was about the age of 13 summers, and a fiery redhead. Venya's curls nearly reached her bum and freckles adorned her arms, face, and neck. She was quite a pretty little thing, in the face of being a constant talker. Mithrenniel had learned in the 20 minutes it took to ready herself, that Venya's mother had been Gondorian, and her father was a man of Dale. When Venya was young, she and her eight sisters came to Minas Tirith looking for work. In the end, the young girl simply stated that she knew not where her seven siblings were, though she had her doubts that they were still within the city's walls.

After the routines of the morning, Venya had stayed in the room with Mithrenniel, starting a fire and very boldly going through Mithrenniel's books and parchments.

"You know how to read and write, Milady?" Mithrenniel could tell the girl did not know she was violating and invading her privacy.

Trying her best to respond to Venya's question while defining the terms personal and belongings, Mithrenniel smiled. "Venya, it is not polite to root around in a lady's belongings. Some things may indeed be very personal, but yes, I do know how to read and write."

Mithrenniel watched intently as Venya blushed and put away all her books and letters…all but one. Leaning against the wall Venya studied a piece of parchment, running her hands over the lettering before slowly walking over to Mithrenniel—who sat on her vanity chair—handing her the parcel.

"Did you write this Milady? I cannot read it, but the script is very beautiful."

Glancing down and then up at the girl, Mithrenniel smiled and shook her head. "I did not. This letter was written by Lord Boromir who sent it to me in Edoras…sometime ago, I might add."

Venya squealed with delight. "Is it a love letter?"

Her eyes widening, Mithrenniel joined scoff and laugh. "Venya, you do not ask such things! A matter of love in letters is a very private thing!"

"Then it is a love letter!" The small servant blushed and grinned ear to ear. "Have you written him anything romantic back?"

Mithrenniel could not believe the boldness and exotic nature of this girl; it reminded her well of Éowyn. "Though it truly is none of your concern," Mithrenniel half scolded, "his letter simply requests if I would come to live here in the citadel. Lord Boromir had expressed his interest…it seems that we now are just beginning to act on it."

Looking up from the paper the lady's eyes met a shocked and gleeful Venya. Her face was red and yet another squeal of amusement escaped her lips. "You are very lucky! Have you ever seen Lord Boromir, fully dressed in armor…oh milady! He is exceptionally handsome! I have heard tell that his eyes are the color of emeralds, and that they sparkle! Not to mention…he has a _very nice _bum."

"Venya!" Mithrenniel flushed deep crimson before standing and escorting the young girl to the door. "I cannot believe you just said that! All right now, you must go! I have much to do today and I do not need anymore of your wicked tongue and naughty thoughts!"

Venya's face was frowning, embarrassed and hurt. The sight pulled at Mithrenniel's heartstrings, and so she played along with the child's game. Stepping out of her room and closing the door behind her, Mithrenniel began to walk with Venya to the main courtyard. "If I tell you a secret you must keep it to yourself, understand?"

Venya nodded.

"There is a man from Rohan staying the citadel, and he is a very good friend of mine. Argod is his name, and he is a Marshal of the Riddermark. Now, I do not know of Lord Boromir, but Lord Argod has a _very nice_…bum."

The two girls began to giggle and soon after Venya was called by an older maid to help with the washing of clothes. Venya bowed and ran off, and Mithrenniel could not help but continue to laugh.

To be so young, to be so bold and yet Mithrenniel had not the latter. Still, she had age on her side but the adolescent woman lacked a certain spark; one she so desperately wished to ignite. Perhaps in time she would learn to be more bold…then again…she may not.

She had expected Boromir to be late. Being the son of the Steward of Gondor had its ups and downs, and Boromir had his hands tied for much of the early morning. So it was that Mithrenniel sat embroidering on the marble benches outside of the library, where Faramir and Argod held private council. She had requested company to sit in on their discussion, but Argod would not hear of it. A lady had no business in the company of two men, discussing dark matters. Of course it was in Mithrenniel's nature to 'fight' Argod on this, countering all he had to say with valid points. (Although the girl may not have been bold with many, Argod made the cut with the few she was bold with.)

She had known the man practically all of her life—since arriving in Edoras at the age of five. Argod had been 22 at that time. (The same age as Boromir.)

Seeing the small Mithrenniel's discomfort in a land so foreign, Argod son of Argoth had taken it upon himself to tease her until she was forced to laugh. What he did not know was that Mithrenniel, daughter of Bellethiel did not take kindly to his jests and took it upon herself to justly—and swiftly—give the young Rohirrim a swift kick to the groin. Since that day an unspoken rule was forced into play. Although a Lady, Mithrenniel had the right to question Argod and his authority...only jokingly of course.

And so their argument continued until Faramir had stated it was probably best she wait outside; Boromir was bound to be finishing up his own council with their father. Surely he would come looking for her. It would be best to wait for him, and wait she did.

Sometime past the ninth hour of morning is when Boromir had finally finished his duties. The sun had been warm, but the air was still cold and Mithrenniel sat sewing with a shawl around her shoulders. Little did the lady know that the Steward-prince of Gondor stood watching her, taking in the minutest detail. Boromir had never seen a creature as enchanting as she. The coolness of the damp spring brought forth a sparkle in her eyes; her cheek red and chilled from the blistering wind. No blemish scarred her delicate face which was pale and faultless as porcelain. Boromir observed her nimble fingers pulling needle and thread in rhythm as she placed the fabric in her lap. He also took note how Mithrenniel's feet dangled off the bench, lightly swinging to and fro. Her hair was braided down the middle of her back, but a few strands of gray fell out of place. She surely was the most perfect piece of imperfection he had ever seen…and this frightened him.

What a sight indeed to see the Captain-General of Gondor frightened to death by the sight of an adolescent girl. The man had slain orc, goblin, mercenary, and things far more foul than what words could tell. Still, Boromir had never considered love a challenging opponent. Boromir—until recently—never wanted to be in love. His life and love was given to Gondor, and for the better half of it, he believed Gondor would be the only one to have it. For three years he had argued with himself over the idea of love, wife, children, and marriage. Often he would scale his love for battle and blood next to the soft touch of a loving woman, neither weighing over the other. And why shouldn't they be equal? Boromir did in fact love Mithrenniel, although he could not directly express his emotions. It had been true that he had admired her from afar, and desperately wished to court her. How busy he was with errands and pleasing his father that he had not the chance to introduce himself three years ago…perhaps now would be the time to do so—properly.

Boromir cleared his throat and ran a large calloused hand through his strawberry-blonde hair before bracing himself for introductions. He stepped up and bowed before Mithrenniel, a slight fear twinkling in his eyes. She then smiled at him, and his gut twisted in an agonizing—but sweet—sensation. For a moment, Boromir had forgotten his name until Mithrenniel stood and curtsied. It was then he released a laughing sigh and regained his composure. Reaching out for her hand, he kissed it. Then bowing deeply he said proudly, "Lady Mithrenniel, I am Boromir, Son of Denethor II, Steward-prince, and Captain-General of Gondor."


End file.
